


The Case of the Unfortunate Infatuation

by orphan_account



Series: The Case of Arthur and the Nemesis [3]
Category: Inception (2010), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-20
Updated: 2011-03-20
Packaged: 2017-10-17 03:44:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/172556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Arthur meets his soulmate, and Sherlock and Eames must join together in an unholy allegiance to return Arthur to his comfortable, rage-filled existence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Case of the Unfortunate Infatuation

The day Eames meets Mycroft Holmes is one of the worst of his life. He doesn’t say that lightly, considering other worst day candidates include being gut shot, being tortured, and having Arthur abandon him in the middle of the night, early on, Arthur disappearing and not showing up for months. But Mycroft Holmes is up there.

They’d never done the job on David Eldersburg, since Sherlock admitting anyone was as smart as him set warning bells off in all of them. They’d scrapped it, and when their client, apparently pissed off, sent some people to deal with them, well, Eames picked them off and never let Arthur know about it. Eames didn’t want any more essays on how infuriating Sherlock Holmes was, particularly since they tended to end with Eames being hit in places no man should be hit.

So when Eames stops by 221b Baker St. on a stint in England, Arthur reluctantly shadowing him like a masochistic ghost, it’s a bit of a surprise when Eldersburg is sitting on the couch, umbrella on his knees and a chastising expression levelled at Sherlock. He supposed he should have listened when John mentioned the mark being Sherlock’s brother, because John generally says things worth listening to, but he’d been too fascinated by the mottled rage on Arthur’s face at the time to pay any attention.

He wishes, ten minutes after they stop in, that he had listened better, or, better yet, that he had never met John Watson at all, sterling individual that he is, because Arthur is sitting on the couch beside Eldersburg, or, Mycroft, apparently, and he looks _fascinated_.

Mycroft is currently informing Arthur of exactly what their job on him entailed, down to the times they’d been surveilling him and the intricacies of their plan, and there are hearts in Arthur’s eyes, Eames can see them from the hall. Sherlock looks peeved, and John looks mildly amused, but Eames might feel a little--just a little--crushed, because it took two years and every trick he had in the book to make Arthur look at him at all, let alone like he looks now, like he’s found a riddle he can’t solve, a riddle he _wants_ to.

“Arthur,” Eames says, perhaps a little loud. “We have that appointment. That we need to go to. Now.”

Arthur serves him a blank look. Usually Arthur would jump on any excuse to leave, even one as haphazard as that one, but this time he just says, “we don’t have an appointment,” and turns back to Mycroft like an overachieving student with a crush on the teacher. Eames slumps.

“Tea then,” John says, settling a hand on Eames’ shoulder, which serves to make Sherlock turn his peevish look on them. Normally Sherlock’s irate possessiveness delights Eames, but it does nothing for him today.

“I hate your tea,” Eames mutters, and John just squeezes before going to putter around in the kitchen.

*

It takes _hours_ before they leave, until Sherlock looks like he’s considering bodily throwing them all out of the door and then possibly shooting them in the face. When Sherlock’s temper is starting to make even John look harried, Mycroft takes his leave, and less than five minutes later, so do Arthur and Eames.

Eames pouts on the tube, and pouts on the stroll back to their flat, and pouts all his way through supper. Arthur is very likely too busy mooning to notice. Eames plans to pout until they leave the blasted city, the sooner the better, but as soon as Arthur heads toward the bedroom, stripping off his waistcoat, and then his shirt, Eames stops pouting. He may feel jilted, but he’s not _stupid_ , and he catches up with Arthur quickly enough to catch him around the waist, undoing his fly for him as he presses his mouth behind Arthur’s ear, Arthur humming contentedly.

“If you’re imagining him right now, I will not be responsible for my actions,” Eames warns. His actions would more likely be weeping tears of dismay than returning the systematic abuse Arthur doles out like love taps, but the point remains. It’d be ugly, to say the least. Arthur would lose every shred of remaining respect he had in Eames, and Eames isn’t going to pretend there’s more than a little to lose.

“Yes,” Arthur says, turning to look at him, rolling his eyes. “I’m currently imagining a balding, middle-aged man undressing me.”

Eames eyes him. “You’re lying,” he says. “You’re a lying liar who is _lying_. You’re imagining his mind in my body, aren’t you.”

“My life would never be that good,” Arthur says, flat, and Eames tackles him onto the bed, sparring until Arthur’s flushed and mussed and laughing, everything Eames could love in a package, and then he sets to making Arthur forget there are any Holmeses in the universe, let alone two.

*

The next day Arthur gets scooped up around ten in the morning by a shady looking car, Mycroft looking smug in the backseat, and Eames suddenly understands why Arthur turns into a pillar of rage when exposed to Sherlock. Holmeses are _infuriating_.

He trudges his way over to John’s, looking for sympathy and tea, and it’s just a further sign of his shit luck that John is at work, and Sherlock is the only one there.

“I’ll just go then,” Eames mumbles.

“No,” Sherlock says, grasping at his wrist when he turns. “We need to fix this.”

Eames blinks at him.

“Mycroft is not allowed to have _things_ ,” Sherlock says.

“I am going to ignore the fact you just called Arthur a thing, but only because you’re on my side,” Eames says mildly.

Sherlock’s mouth twists. “I’m going to ignore the fact you just implicitly threatened me, but only because your arms are the size of my head,” Sherlock says, as if granting a favour, and lets him inside.

Eames has to make his own tea, but it’s worth it when John comes home, taking the tea Eames offers him with a vaguely confused blink, and Sherlock and Eames have hammered out a plan.

“Will it end in an inordinate amount of bloodshed?” John asks between biscuits when Sherlock and Eames clue him in.

“Not inordinate,” Sherlock says, and Eames nods, trying to send John a reassuring look. John looks like he’s the opposite of reassured.

“Possibly not any at all!” Eames adds optimistically. "At least, none that isn't mine."

“You can stay with us if Arthur leaves you,” John says. “But for no more than a week.”

“He can _not_ ,” Sherlock hisses. “I have delicate experiments that will be _ruined_ by his oafish blundering.”

Eames makes sure to oafishly blunder away before he gets caught in the middle of a domestic.

*

Arthur comes home around suppertime, looking like less like the infatuated teenager he’d been and more like the glowering ball of rage Eames knows and loves.

“How was your date?” Eames asks solicitously.

“Not a word,” Arthur snaps, and stomps to their bedroom.

Eames follows him, careful to stay far enough away that Arthur’s long legs can’t clip him. “Did something happen?” Eames asks, hoping his tone comes off innocent.

“He gave me this whole speech about how he was flattered, but was married to his _work_ ,” Arthur spits. “As if I was interested. And if he was so smart, how the fuck did he miss the fact I’m already _with_ someone?”

Eames beams at him. It generally takes less than ideal circumstances, like concussions and massive blood-loss, for Arthur to admit that they’ve been doing more than fucking their way around the globe for the past two years. And when he admits it, Eames is usually too injured or medicated to appreciate it.

Arthur catches the look. “What did you do?” he asks suspiciously, and it takes all of Eames’ will-power not to edge for the door. When Arthur smells blood in the water, the consequences tend to be worse.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Eames says, praying, just this once, he can actually successfully con Arthur. It doesn’t work that often.

Arthur’s eyes narrow.

“It was probably Sherlock,” Eames says desperately, hoping to redirect blame. “You know how he is, always trying to ruin your life. And such.” Eames tends to tune out of Arthur’s rants about Sherlock.

“Sherlock,” Arthur says, in the same tone people generally say ‘Genocide’ or ‘Hitler’ or ‘Marmite’. “Of course.”

And then he’s off on another rant, and Eames sits on the bed, lending him half an ear while he pulls out his phone.

 _mssn accomplished tnks mate_

After a moment, his phone lights up.

 _If you stopped visiting nothing like this would happen. We would all be happier. Please never return._

 _SH_

Another moment, and he has another text.

 _ignore whatever sherlock said i think hes peeved mycroft made a friend when he couldnt_

And finally:

 _Do not ignore me. I do not want a friend, simply for you to leave forever. I said please._

 _SH_

Eames grins, typing out a quick _did u know johns taken off my pants b4?_ (twelve years ago, John cutting through Eames' fatigues to get at shrapnel embedded in his thigh, but Eames really does love rendering Sherlock speechless with rage. It's one of his favourite hobbies).

Arthur's voice cuts in, and Eames turns his phone off and schools his face to attention when Arthur turns on him. “And,” Arthur says, “And!”

He seems to run out of steam then, and slumps. “C’mere,” Eames says, and reaches his arms out. Arthur crawls onto him.

“No more Holmeses for us, alright?” Eames says into his hair. “It’s not good for your blood pressure.”

Arthur makes a noise of grumbly agreement. Then he pinches Eames, like he needs to get his daily allotment of abuse out. Eames endures, stroking a hand down Arthur’s back.

“I bet he has a small cock anyway,” Eames says, and there’s a suspiciously long silence from Arthur.

“Darling?” Eames says, alarmed. “ _Arthur_?”, and he’s worked himself up into a fine lather when Arthur starts to laugh, muffled into his chest.

“You utter bastard,” Eames says, and pulls him closer, Arthur shaking with giggles against him.

Arthur looks up, cheeks flushed. “Your face,” he says, through laughter, then pinches Eames’ cheek like a particularly sadistic grandmother. “Your _face_ right now.”

“Bugger off,” Eames grumbles, and plans to never, ever return to London. Problems with multiple nuisances of the Holmes variety is good excuse to stay far enough away that he can no longer visit his parents in Beaconsfield.

He'll take it, if it's the only thing he can get from this wretched excuse for a vacation.


End file.
